


Dear Ryou Bakura

by AJofAmityville



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angstshipping - Freeform, Depression, Dub influenced, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 14:04:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11807472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJofAmityville/pseuds/AJofAmityville
Summary: A letter that was never meant to be seen, a lie that was never meant to be told, a life he never dreamed he could have. Ryou Bakura is about to get the one thing he's always wanted: a chance to finally fit in.The story of Dear Evan Hansen told through Yu-Gi-Oh characters (not word for word). Changes with nods to canon. Yami Marik is 'Marik' while the original is 'Malik'. Yami Bakura is referred to as 'Zorc (Z) Bakura'.





	Dear Ryou Bakura

_ Dear Ryou Bakura, _

_ Today is going to be a great day, and here is why… _

_ Today is the first day of your senior year. A chance to start anew. New classes. New subjects to learn. New opportunities. New friends to make, adventures to take… _

_ The only thing that’s still the same is you. _

_ Same clothes, same hair, same personality, same hobbies… _

_ But it’s okay, isn’t it? Aren’t these what make you unique? _

_ On the other hand, if they were anything special, you might already have friends. Maybe, if you had anything special about you, Malik could tell you apart from Z. He could have something else to remember you by other than the countless time he yelled ‘Bakura!’ in your direction, only to have his face fall with embarrassment the instant you turned around.  _

_ But with or without Malik, it will be interesting to see how you end up making any new friends at all when it’s been the same classmates for the past year alone.  _

_ Perhaps, if you’re lucky, there will be a new student. A new face in the crowd. Someone who is just as lost in this world as you are. _

 

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Your one and only friend, _

_ Me _

 

There’s a knock at the door, and I promptly close my laptop, leaving the desk to grab a Ouija Board messenger bag stuffed with school supplies. It’s awkward to sling around me though, now that I’ve got this arm cast in the way, but I manage nonetheless. A creak follows, and before I can even give it my full attention, the door is opened. Blocking the only exit - my father.

“I didn’t say you could come in.”

He scoffs with a smile, though his eyes are closed. It takes a second for him to actually look me in the eye.

“Then I hope you’ll excuse me,” he says, “You’re so quiet, I had to assume.”

I shrug. “Well, you know what happens when you assume…”

The last word has barely been spoken when he wags a finger at me. My lips purse in favor of any distasteful comments.

“Now, now, let’s not start by making this morning about me,” he insists, entering the bedroom, “ _ This  _ is a day for you! This is your  _ year _ ! My boy’s finally getting closer to being his own man.” He stops just short of me and proudly grabs my shoulders, beaming. Despite that, and having his gaze locked on me, his eyes are still difficult to read. Almost as if they’re empty. 

Then, he sighs, something wistful, and with a single blink, they soften. “These next few years will be some of the best.  _ I know it! _ You’ve always been a smart kid.  _ Good kid _ . Door after door will open up for you... _ You _ just have to bring yourself to step through them...Think you can do that?”

I can’t tell if the look of question he’s giving me is asking for a sign of assurance or ‘How’s my act? Am I convincing enough?’

So I simply give him the answer we both anticipate - “I can do it, Pop.”

He chuckles, sounding relieved, and pats my head. “Of course you can. You’re my son.”

_ Is that all it takes _ , I wonder.

Alerted by the churning of my stomach, I look for the clock on my nightstand. I don’t have to be at school  _ exactly  _ soon, but I don’t have to here either.

Clearing my throat, I mutter, “Yes, well, thank you for stopping by.” I make a point to brush up against him gently as I weave around him, hoping that’ll substitute for a hug. “But you know what they say -  _ the early bird catches the worm _ .”

Halfway into the living room, an unfamiliar aroma ambushes my airways, stopping me in my tracks. 

_ That couldn’t be...bacon? _

Skeptical, I turn to glance into the kitchen only to be confronted by my father again. A set table with two plates of bacon, sausage, fruit, and toast lingers sits just outside my immediate vision.

“...You made breakfast?”

“I, uhm - “ It’s strange. His smile is suddenly sheepish as he reaches to rub the back of his neck. “I guess I wasn’t paying much attention to the time. Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean up and leave it in the fridge for when you get back. It’s fine! Probably wouldn’t have been able to get more than a few bites in, anyway. Can’t stay much longer…”

“No, I know. Right.” I nod, fidgeting with my bag strap and attempting a smile. “I appreciate it. Thank you. Haven’t had real breakfast food in a while. I’m sure it’ll still make a great dinner.”

He nods right back, emitting weak laughter. “That’s the thing, y’know - there’s no wrong time for a great meal.” After some brief hesitation, he extends his hand for a shake. “If I’m not around later tonight, I’ll see you tomorrow. Does that work for you?”

Sealing the handshake, I answer, “Whenever you can make it.” In that same instant, I watch as his grin vanishes, brows furrowing and accentuating the wrinkles around his eyes. My own voice catches in my throat as my hand retracts. Slowly, it registers; I definitely said that with much more bitterness than I intended. Not to mean I’m  _ not _ bitter, but I’d hoped to keep this civil at the least.

Now, however, it’s too late. I can already hear the school bell going off in my head, every muscle in my body telling me to get out and deal with the situation later. Whatever chance I still have to turn this day into a new start, it isn’t here.

I flee the apartment without another word.

There’s guilt, naturally, but that guilt multiples as I consider this to be justifiable.

He’s done this for the past three years; last year, rather than breakfast, it was a new bike.  _ New _ , as in  _ new to me _ , I suppose - the wear marks on the handlebars suggested that, but I never brought it up. I never do. He pretends to get involved with my life when it’s appropriate for him, and I pretend it never bothers me. I may as well start planning my schedule around it now: he’ll check in on me for the next week, then decide I’m growing up and doing  _ wonderful  _ on my own, say he’ll be back for the holidays or for special events, then realize he also has business trips and museum visits on those exact dates, and maybe, if I email him reminders every now and then, he’ll call. Sometimes, even though I’m barely able to reach him by phone, he’ll leave voicemails out of the blue. I still remember how happy it made me to see them in the beginning.

Lately, I’ve taken to deleting them as soon as I get them.

 

Once I arrive at school, I’m forced to navigate a sea of people squealing and hollering while they clammer to embrace each other near the entrance. I hold my bag close, squeezing through, and only get shoved or knocked into a few times. It’s a bother, taking me that much longer to reach my locker, but I can’t be entirely upset by it. Some of these people haven’t seen each other in  _ months _ , I can understand that. It fascinates me too, how some of these loyalties persevere and become full-on gushing at the sight of their friends. Just... _ imagining _ someone being that ecstatic to see me is enough to make my heart swell.

“If it isn’t my good ol’ host!”

Then again, I suppose  _ ecstasy  _ can be expressed in more than one way.

I’ve left my books for later in the day in my locker, prepared to close it, when the voice nearly makes me jump out of my skin.

“Heh, here I am…” I mumble, turning to see a face almost identical to mine at the locker over - although, his smug smile is one I would never wear. “ _ Parasite _ … _ ” _

How I used to loathe our nicknames; the only way I can tolerate it now is that the meanings behind them have changed: from insulting one another to light-heartedly mocking our own father.

Zorc, or _Z_ , is my half-brother. _What’s the big deal_ , most might ask, _Lots of people get divorced nowadays and move on_ _to new families_. Except then they look at the two of us again. They realize we are in the same grade. They realize our birthdays are less than two months apart.

Had the old man had weaker genes, family secrets might have been easier to hide.

Tucking my hair behind my ear, I lean against my locker and scratch at my arm cast, thinking that somehow it might relieve the vague itching underneath.

“So...Did you...have a good summer?”

Z snorts and crosses his arms. “If you count getting booted from my Duel Monsters league but being the one to slaughter them all when it came time for me to run the Monster World campaign, then sure,  _ it went swell _ .”

_ DnD _ ? Now I’m perking up a bit.

“Are..you still into that?” I peep, unable to help the genuine interest in my tone, “Do you still play as Dungeon Master? Maybe we could team up sometime. If you ever need help with a storyline or need new figures, I could - “

I stop, signaled by Z holding his palm up.

“Ask yourself this first, Ryou,” he interjects, “Why on  _ Earth _ would I go to you for help?”

I bite my lower lip and shuffle into standing upright. I shouldn’t be offended, really - it’s just like him to say something like that.  _ Still _ ...That pressure on my mind is already starting to build.

I shrug slightly. “I guess...If you ever wanted to try to get closer? I don’t know, maybe we could even be -”

“ _ Friends _ ?” 

I gulp and give a careful nod.

Z sarcastically rolls his eyes, the corners of his smirk twitching with waning patience. “We’re  _ family _ , Ryou,” he states, “ _ That’s it. _ If we weren’t - let’s face it - we’d want nothing to do with each other. You want to make friends..?” There’s a brief pause as his focus appears to shift. It doesn’t take long to realize he’s waiting for something, and then I catch on - 

The voice of one young woman, unmistakable amid the crowd. A flash of blonde that swishes back and forth across the hallway, the tell-tale sign of a social butterfly fluttering clique to clique. Z points his thumb right toward her.

“There’s your welcoming committee.”

I quickly turn the opposite direction, searching for a path through a bustling herd of students. For a second, I debate throwing caution to the wind and bolting through. But before I can make up my mind, that very ‘ _ too-chipper-for-this-early-in-the-morning _ ’ voice demands my attention.

_ "Ryou! _ ”

I do my best to tone down a grimace as I turn back to greet her. “ _ Rebecca _ ,” I chuckle, trusting it sounds friendly enough.

A sudden look of apprehension clear across her face has me worrying she’s already onto my charade - until I notice her sights are on my cast. To no other surprise, she gasps, “What happened to your arm?!”

Thankfully, the answer warrants no further attempt to smile. “Well, I....I was at the beach, and I tried diving for the first time. Silly me, I didn’t check to see what the rocks were like first. Doctors said I should be lucky it’s _ only _ my arm.” 

I flinch as Z instantly erupts into a fit of laughter. “You busted your arse  _ diving _ ?! Honestly, do you even  _ know _ how to swim?”

It’s pointless to protest unless I want the ridicule to continue. Rebecca, on the other

hand, glares and pouts notably at him, exclaiming, “That’s horrible!” When she looks at me again, it’s with that same expression I’ve seen mothers give their children after they’ve fallen and scraped their knee. “I’m sorry, Ryou - “ She hardly spares a breath as she goes on, “Last summer, my cousin was in a cannonball competition at our community pool, but she took too far a running start, and ended up jumping so far out, she landed on the kiddie-side, shattering  _ both _ her knees. She’s been in a wheelchair ever since.”

I can sense my eyes widening with concern, glancing to Z to see him raising an equally uncertain brow. “ _ That’s _ …”

“A pity -” I shake my head, recovering my voice. “But I’m sure she’s very strong and will pull through in a matter of time.” 

Z nods affirmatively.

Once more, she opens her mouth to speak, prompting Z to clear his throat. Taking the initiative, I swiftly add, wanting to change the subject, “What about you, Rebecca? How was your summer?”

She beams at that, evidently having waited all morning for someone to ask. I sort of feel bad for her. “It was wonderful!” she chimes, “My grandpa and I road-tripped across the country to visit the top campuses in each state! I made friends with so many professors who said even if I didn’t attend that school, they’d be happy to have me sit in on one of their classes! But I think the best part was being able to have dinner with a few deans here and there. You know, boys, even if your grades aren’t the best, there’s still hope! Nowadays, it’s all about how you network.” 

I catch another glimpse from Z, his brows knit together and lips in a taut line. It’s been some time since I’ve seen him so  _ thoroughly  _ unamused. Gratefully, Rebecca’s ego-sphere keeps her oblivious.

“We’ll have to remember that,” I tell her.

It’s at that moment the first bell sounds overhead, echoing throughout the hallway. Tired groans emerge under giggling gossip and farewells as the other students hurriedly part ways to head to their homerooms. 

“Oh! I guess that’s it for now!” Rebecca curtsies, winks, and throws up a peace sign for good measure. “Catch you boys around!” 

I offer a polite wave in return, and she slips away, into presently organized hallway traffic. 

Z exaggerates a sigh, as if he’s been holding his breath the entire time. “On second

Thought,” he grumbles, “Find another friend. If she clings to you, that means she’ll be tagging along every time you come crawling to me, and that’s something I have absolutely zero patience for.”

I simply scoff and roll my eyes, prepared to walk away and find my own homeroom when a thundering  _ bang  _ causes me to freeze. From the corner of my eye, I notice Z flinching as well. 

The hallway is suddenly much quieter, and people begin to disperse. It’s then we’re able to spot the source across the hall - a strapping male with spiked blonde hair and a fist on his locker. Presumably from punching or slamming it.

“Marik!” Z calls over, and the prominently taller boy slowly turns his head towards us, not unlike a lion that’s just decided his meal for the day. I can’t help but feel significantly smaller, yet my dear brother seems less than deterred. “Nice to see you survived the summer,” he continues, “I appreciate the hairdo - girls will have no choice but to call you  _ smoking hot _ when you look like you’ve been electrocuted.”

My eyes widen  _ incredulously  _ at the comment; the urge to slap my hand over his mouth is great, but I resist, lest I risk another broken arm. 

Marik remains quiet, unblinking as his cold stare buries into us, sending a chill down my spine. Z’s grin gradually fades until he’s left shifting on his feet, not much of a fan of poker faces. 

“What, did you go mute in the past few weeks?” he challenges instead, “I meant it as a joke.”

“Oh, I know that,” the blonde finally answers, and his lips twist into a wicked grin. Moreso bares his teeth. He isn’t happy - He wants to show dominance. “I’m laughing, can’t you tell?” And then he takes a few steps _ forward. _

“ _ Or am I not laughing hard enough? _ ”

Z sneers, looping his fingers in the straps of his backpack. “Gods, you're psychotic.” Before the situation has another chance to escalate, he nods to me and walks briskly away with his nose in the air. 

I swear, that's just like him. Getting cocky, provoking, taunting - only to retreat as soon as the situation is no longer in his favor. No doubt he'll claim it a victory regardless, able to hold some sort of ‘dignity’, but what dignity is there to begin with when he does little but antagonize?

It's laughable at this point, that it does actually elicit a real, bitter, chuckle from me.

“What are you laughing at?”

My heart skips a bit, gooseflesh rising on my arms as I tilt my head up to meet Marik’s intense gaze, realizing he’s still there.

“Gck-!” I attempt to step back, only for my heel to kick the locker behind me. “N-nothing. It's Zorc -  _ eheh _ , he's so unbelievable, isn't he?”

“Do you think I'm psychotic too?!”

His voice is booming, and mine catches in my throat. If I had time to unlock my locker and stuff myself into it, I would.

“ _ Do you?!” _

I must look like a deer in the headlights as he continues to stare me down, absorbed in my instinct that if I don't move, he’ll leave me alone. But like Z awaiting any form of reaction, Marik doesn't seem to be too fond of the silent treatment either.

A growl rumbles in his throat, and the next thing I know, his hands are on my shoulders. He pushes me down, onto the floor, and stalks away, muttering, “ _ You’re the friggin’ psycho _ .”

I squeeze my eyes shut, praying to any deity that will listen to let me wake up back in my bed the next time I blink. Let me start the day over. Let me be stronger. Let me be somebody else.

But the throbbing of my already broken arm does not numb. It does not cease. And the tiles beneath me and the metal locker behind me are still cold and unforgiving. They do not soften. There is no warmth or comfort of bed or arms to shield and protect. There is only me. Alone, in the same frail body. 

I could just stay here for the rest of the day, waiting for the rush between first and second period to be stampeded by my peers. Or maybe I don't have to wait that long. 

The sound of footsteps at full speed nears me, and I brace my impact. Much to my surprise, there's a squeaking stop as rubber soles skid against linoleum. 

“Ryou?”

My face heats up immediately and embarrassment finally starts sinking in, at once minding my own appearance. 

I could recognize that voice from anywhere. I've had it stuck in my head like an overplayed pop song for most of high school. 

Swallowing whatever’s left of my pride, I look up to see Marik’s kinder, tidier twin brother - Malik. Shining eyes of amethyst gaze pitifully back at me as he stoops to crouch in front me, hand extended. 

“Are you alright?” His voice is the smoothest, most sincere sound I've heard all morning, and his hand in mine is a life vest as I pull myself back on my feet.

“I will be,” I quietly assure him, not wanting to give him any more grief. No doubt he had to leave his own friends just to come check on me. 

But like Rebecca, I catch him glancing to my arm, though it's obvious he's making an effort to keep his eyes locked on mine. It's appreciated, of course, but also serves to show he's less than convinced. 

“I'm sorry about my brother,” he says, shame seeping into his tone, “He can be a real prick. Don’t take it personally - You should see how he is at home. Except...not.” A gentle smile adorns his lips, and I can't resist smiling back. “You're a good guy, right?” Malik adds, dusting off my shoulder, “No reason you should have to be subjected to that.”

The second bell rings out without warning, causing us both to jump. We laugh at how easily we've been startled, but it's quick to subside once we realize the significance of it.

“Well, if being late for first period on the first day doesn't say ‘senioritis’, I don't know what will.” He gives me one last look over, likely thinking something along the lines of ‘ _ Poor loser’.  _ “Time to make a good first impression. See you around?”

I'm unable to shake the feeling it's merely a formality but nod in response nonetheless. Besides, it's school - we’re bound to run into one another sooner or later. 

Grinning wide, Malik waves as he goes on ahead, power walking to class. 

I continue standing for a moment more, collecting myself and digesting the butterflies in the stomach. Eventually, I will myself to take a deep breath and wander off in the opposite direction, in search of Room B182.

 

* * *

 

_ Dear Ryou Bakura, _

_ Turns out today wasn't such a great day after all. This isn't going to be a great week, or a great year because...Well, because, why else would it be?  _

_ I know, I know, because there's Malik, and the only chance I would ever have at a fulfilling and meaningful future is through Malik who I hardly know and who barely knows me.  _

_ Maybe if I could just talk to him, then maybe… _

_ Maybe nothing would be different at all. _

_ I wish everything was different. _

_ I wish I was part of something. _

_ I wish anything I said mattered to anyone.  _

_ Honestly, would anyone notice if I just disappeared tomorrow? _

 

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Your closest and dearest friend, _

_ Me _

 

Lunch hasn't even officially ended yet, but I figured I'd be better off arriving early to my next class to avoid what happened this morning. Not that I was in any sort of trouble - the teacher mostly expected it, though it didn’t stop me from being on time to all the others. 

The day so far has gone by in more or less of a blur, each class going over similar formalities, each their own syllabus with similar rules. Same process as each previous years.

The period before last...I wrote a letter, and I’ve carried it like a rock in my bag ever since. 

I thought these letters would help the way they did with Amane. That I’d be able to reread them at a later point and decipher the solutions to my problems within. But now...Now I just feel  _ pathetic _ .

I comb my bangs away from my face, heaving a sigh, and pull back the planchette zipper on my bag. Maybe if I tear up the letter, I’ll be able to tear up those feelings as well.

I check my folder for that period. Just the syllabus.

I check my folder for the following period. Just another syllabus. 

I check every folder in my bag. More syllabuses. 

I check between the pages of the syllabuses.

Growing frantic, I begin to check textbooks, pockets in my bag, pockets in my uniform, under my desk -

“ _ What happened to your arm _ ?”

My head nearly collides with the desk as I bolt up at the voice. There, slumped in the doorway, is Marik Ishtar, his expression unreadable.

“Oh..” The sound ghosts past my lips, and I look slowly from him, to my cast, and back again, as if I needed some kind of reminder. “It’s a funny story, actually,” I start cautiously, expecting a reaction similar to Z’s. “You see, I went diving for the first time - on the hill by the beach - but I, uhm...I didn’t realize the rocks were as close as they were.”

Marik, however, does not laugh. Rather, he remains stoic. Then -

“You call that a funny story?”

The knot in my stomach tightens, and I find myself struggling to hold my head up.

“Yes, well, not funny as in comedic, but like ironic-funny -”

_ Oh gods, if looks could kill _ .

“...Admittedly, I have a poor sense of humor.”

_ That’s  _ what earns a faint chortle from him. He shifts his tattered backpack from one shoulder to the other. “Isn’t there a cliche revolving around those things?” he asks, gesturing to my cast, “Aren’t people supposed to sign it?” 

I shrug, somewhat taken aback that such a thing would cross his mind. “I guess the people I’m around don’t care much for tradition.”

“Too bad,” Marik snorts, stepping into the classroom. “But if no one else will - “ He walks right over to the teacher’s desk, opening the drawer and digging around in it before producing a Sharpie marker. “Then that must leave me.”

“Oh no!” I blurt out, “You don’t have to do that-!” 

But grabbing my arm across the desk, it appears his mind is made up. 

In big letters, covering most of the cast, Marik writes his name.

“ _ Ah _ ...Thanks…”

“ _ Mhm _ .” Putting the cap back on the marker, he simply tosses it over his shoulder. “Now we can both pretend we have friends.”

I manage a small grin as the next bell rings, bringing with it the noise of students moving throughout the halls once again. Marik, too, turns to leave but stops as soon as he reaches the doorway.

“ _ Is this yours _ ?”

In his hand, he holds up a piece of notebook paper, the words scrawled upon it seeming rushed yet emotional. 

The color drains from my face in an instant.

“ _ Dear Ryou Bakura _ ...That’s your name isn’t it?” 

“How…” I’m forced to swallow the dryness settling in my throat, “How did you find it..?”

“It was right there on my desk last period!” Crumpling the letter in a powerful fist, he whips back around. “‘ _ Because there’s Malik _ ’..? Did Zorc put you up to this?!”

“ _ Zorc?! _ No, no, he had nothing to do with it!” 

“So  _ you  _ wanted me to find this?!”

“ _ Wha _ -why... _ Why would I want that _ ?!”

His shouting tunes out any other students, and he’s so bulky I can’t tell if anyone else is near the door that dare intervene. Or perhaps an audience awaits him on the other side - others that were just  _ waiting  _ for a way to get rid of me. Just leave me in the lion’s den.

“Probably so I could read some weird shit you wrote about my brother!” 

“Hey-!”

The new voice is that of an older woman. A teacher, judging by the clicking of her heels. 

When I don’t respond, Marik charges up to me, gripping my desk and pulling it forward, demanding I look into wild, bloodshot eyes, “ _ RIGHT?! _ ”

My lip quivers, and I stutter incoherently.  _ Helpless _ . How do I reason with him? How do I get him to  _ listen _ ? To let him know that the only person I intended to degrade was myself?

His fists reel back, aiming for a punch, when a smaller hand catches it from behind, jerking him back. “ _ Enough _ ,” the petite teacher insists, “That’s enough. Your classroom. Now. Before I issue a write-up.” 

Marik tears himself from her grip, only to spit in my direction. “Fuck you!” he snarls, pushing the teacher aside to storm out of the room. Even out there, I can still hear him - “Fuck  _ all  _ of you!” 

The teacher seems ready to comfort me, but if there’s one time I don’t want it, it’s  _ now _ . Marik still has the letter.

I race from my desk, back out to the hallway, met only by bewildered faces. Standing on the tips of my toes, I scan the crowd for any sign of a spiked mane.

Wherever he went off to,

He’s gone.


End file.
